Inevitable
by kiwi-fruit-from-hell
Summary: Set after 'Sniper Zero'. The residue of the day sparks events. Warnings: DonCharlie fic, incest, swearing.


Warnings (again): This is a Don/Charlie fic, and yes, that means incest. Please don't go off at me for how gross it is. If you aren't okay with it, please do not read past this disclaimer. Otherwise, enjoy!

-

It's inevitable, really. The numbers, the statistics, they all add up for each and everyone one of us. Determinism is bleak, but without the bleak belief that powered his waiting and watching, Charlie would never have reached this point. The belief isn't the cause, of course, it's just one more thing in the chain of the necessary that has led them here. Each triggered by the one before it and causing the next, creating the setting of events far removed.

-

Don set another two beers on the table in front of them. Somewhere between the first and second movie, Charlie had migrated from his chair to being sharing the couch. Don's eyes lingered on him for a moment; he had his legs drawn up and crossed like a child, the bowl of popcorn in his lap as his picked through pieces.

Charlie glanced up at the some of the beer bottles clinking onto the table, and saw Don looking at him. "You never put enough sugar on." He rested a bit of popcorn on the end of his thumb and curled his index finger behind it. "We need more popcorn. And before you ask me to make it, I am forced to remind you that I have a perfect awareness of the effects of force and speed upon this projectile, and I have possession of all the ammunition."

"I'm faster than you, math boy," said Don. He was lit from behind by the glowing television screen, casting blue illumination on the crinkles around his eyes and mouth as he smiled. At his side, his silhouetted hand twitched.

Charlie laughed and flicked his fingers; the popcorn arced gracefully through the air and hit Don's forehead. "You would be dead now if that was a gun." Charlie waited for him to laugh, but instead felt the air shift; the atmosphere had changed. Don's countenance had dropped. When he reached forward for the bowl, Charlie handed it to him wordlessly, and then watched him walk out to the kitchen.

Sat on the couch alone, he cleared his throat and tapped his fingers on the coffee table. There were different sounds in different places, and he briefly wondered if he could, theoretically, tap out some sort of tune. He watched his fingernails very intently testing the tones of the wood, while the analytical centre of his mind informed him he was distracting himself, and then informed that once he had realized he was distracting himself, he couldn't very well call it a distraction anymore – he was just a strange man trying to play a coffee table. He followed Don to the kitchen.

Blinking as his eyes adjusted to the brightness of the kitchen lights, he said, "You okay?"

-

'Inevitable' isn't really the right word. It implies attempts to stop the course of events. Don thought he had been trying to stop it, but the reality is his moves made the board how it is. The state of play is as much down to him as it is to Charlie, to the beer, and to the terror of near death.

But 'inevitable', by its very notion, implies evitability. It's Newtonian language; as each action has an equal and opposite, so does each word. No, it isn't inevitable. It just _is_.

-

"You okay?"

Don grunted his reply. He was watching the bowl spin in the microwave, pretending it was much more interesting than it actually was.

"Okay. Just so I know we're on the same page, we're both clear that expelling air does not constitute an answer unless you try to make some phonetics out of it, right?"

"Charlie." His hands were griping the counter-top, and his knuckles were white, but he kept his tone natural. "I spoke to Dad, yesterday. He said you would still do anything to impress me."

Charlie's brow wrinkled. "Yeah, well, you're my big brother."

"Look, I told you. You don't have to prove yourself to anyone."

Charlie half-laughed, almost bitterly. "Huh, not even to you?"

"See, it's that! That's what I'm talking about!" Don turned to face him and pointed across the room. "What does that even mean? Why did you say it?"

"I…" The roof of Charlie's mouth was suddenly too dry, the skin on the back of his hand too itchy. He tipped his head forward and let his curls fall in front of his eyes. Unformed sentences flew through his head like meteorites, sparking and burning up too fast to be understood. "I don't know."

Don shook his head. "When do you ever not know something?" Charlie didn't answer, didn't even meet his eyes, so he continued. "We do this all the time. I don't know what the fuck it is."

The microwave dinged. "I don't know what you're expecting me to say. I'm going to watch the movie."

It could have been like the brief fight – if it could even be called a fight – in the kitchen had never happened. They were sat in the dark living room watching the video piracy warnings scroll past them on the screen. Charlie wondered exactly how video piracy funded the drugs trade; how bad a dealer must one be to fail to make a profit on drugs alone? The animation of the menu flared up.

"Charlie, I'm sorry, okay?"

"Okay." The tension still hadn't dispelled, and Charlie winced at his own inability to sound light-hearted.

"No, don't say okay using that voice because I know you're lying."

"It's okay." Charlie tried to force the tone out of his voice. It was okay, really and truly, as much as these things could be, but Charlie was never able to sound honest when answering these questions. He put his hand on Don's arm to centre the room, to calm his perception of time. "Really, I'm fine."

Don's finger hovered over the play button for a second, and he stared at its edge, drawing his fingernail around it. "I don't want you mixed up in too much in FBI stuff."

"Oh, well, okay. That's up to you, I guess, but-"

"No, Charlie. You said it. I have to be able to understand the mind of a serial killer. My job is all about death. I don't want you to be a part of that."

"Oh," he said, registering what had caused the sudden shift earlier. Charlie spoke softly to counter Don's raised voice. "I wasn't hurt today."

"You nearly died! I can't work when I know it's a possibility. God, all I can see every time I blink is the glass smashing and you falling."

"Whereas I get to sit home when it could be you, every single day. _Every_ day. Do you have any idea what that's like? Working with you has been the first time I've been able to breathe in years, the first time I…"

"What?"

"I don't know."

"Stop fucking saying that! You do know. You always goddamn well know."

Charlie was shaking; he drew his arms around his body and pushed himself back against the soft couch cushions. It was slight, barely perceptible to the outside observer. He trembled with the adrenal reaction, and the anxiety tossing his stomach. The menu animation reached the end of its play and there was a flash of darkness as the screen repeated. "Do you really want to have this conversation?"

"Dad said you didn't know how to say no to me."

"I know how. I just don't want to."

Everything has a tipping point; the moment the sin curve breaches one; the second a balloon loses just so much helium that the densities are unbalanced and it plummets to earth; the instant when tan stops being nothing and becomes infinity.

"I always wanted to be like you, you know," Don told him.

Charlie could hear the DVD player ticking in the background, marking off the turns of the disc against the low, whirring spin. The light had been left on in the kitchen, he noted, and it outlined the doorframe. He was lying on his back on the couch, not quite sure how he had ended up here, with the warm weight of Don pressing him down. Don's lips on his, Don's hands resting on his waist, everything was too warm and Charlie found himself fumbling with his shirt buttons.

"Not just be like you…I used to wish I was you. You were always so perfect."

Don's lips were softer than he had been expecting, tasting faintly of beer and popcorn and gum. It was the same way he always smelled when they'd say goodbye at the end of an evening. Charlie felt his hair pulled as Don's hands tangled through it, and he became more desperately aware of reality; he kissed harder, more frantically, and his fingers tripped across Don's skin. He was touching every inch of him, fast and delicate motions, assuring himself that there was something there, that there was really someone else to hold on to.

-

Some people refer to it as God, or fate, or some kind of synchronicity. Charlie thinks his belief is so much more amazing. Everything is connected, everything touches, brushes, pushes against everything else, and every event in existence makes this moment what it is. Not only does everything contribute to making it possible, everything is a part of it being the only possibility, the only reality that could exist. The most miniscule of changes would create a different reality, but it didn't; this is where they were. Everything was perfect, to make every moment perfect.


End file.
